goodnight
by closingdoors
Summary: 8x22. Everyone has a last time. COMPLETE.
Goodbye to the roses on your street
Goodbye to the paintings on your wall  
Goodbye to the children we'll never meet  
And the ones we left behind  
 **\- Santa Monica Dream, Angus and Julia Stone**

* * *

 _So. Yeah. I wrote the happy ending. Now I need to focus on the bittersweet; there's no way you can tell me Beckett isn't aware she might die in 8x22._

EDIT: So, the show - THANK GOD - was cancelled like five minutes after I posted this. There's no way this is canonical now that they finally get their happy ending, but feel free to read it anyway.

* * *

The morning of the day everything falls apart, she already knows.

He wakes before her, woefully on edge, smiling as he makes his way back into their room with a mug of coffee for her. Leans across the bed to pass it to her but her hands curl around his neck instead, pull him down close until she can kiss him. She feels the pressure in the mattress dip as he rests an elbow by her waist to steady himself, hears the clatter of the mug hitting the bedside table next to her. Well, at least one of them still has some sense of co-ordination.

Castle pulls away, smiling a little. He's hesitant with his happiness now, and she hates it, feels her heart squeeze uncomfortably. That is the only thing she has ever wanted to give him, happiness. Now the threat is looming over their heads and she knows that she hasn't – maybe never will – been able to give him unconditional happiness the way he has her.

Maybe one day he will forgive her for it.

"What was that for? Not that I'm complaining," he asks, leaning down to dust her jaw with kisses.

His stubble brushes against her skin, has her curling a hand around his ear. He's been too busy worrying about her lately to remember to shave, too busy looking at her like she's already gone. She wonders, sometimes, if he knows this will only end one of two ways; neither of them happy. If that's why he holds her a little too tightly now, as though he's waiting for her to disappear from his grasp.

"A girl can't kiss her husband good morning?"

Her voice is still thick with sleep, but he keeps kissing the skin of her jaw anyway, making his way down her neck. He smirks against her collarbone when he feels her hips shift beneath him, seeking already, and she twists his ear.

"Ow!" He whines, pulling a way a little to glare at her as she laughs. He rubs his ear. "You're mean, Beckett."

"Wimp," she teases, wrapping her arms around his waist, pulling him down onto her, until his body is pressing her into the mattress.

Kate feels her heart clatter against her ribs, still nervous as she has always been. It is a privilege, being able to be here, like this, laughing in bed, with him. It's something she never had before him – sex and laughter together. She loves him for it, for everything.

Kate presses her nose into his shoulder, inhaling the smell of him. They both fall still for a moment, even though the press of his body against hers makes arousal flip in her stomach, her legs turning to jelly. There had been a time, years ago, when she had thought she'd never be able to experience, not even for one night. A time when she had thought she wasn't enough, that she never could be enough – she had fought for this, her right to him. She's still fighting. Coming home from work to him, waking in the morning like this with him, feeling laughter rumble through his chest when he's pressed against her… all of this is what she fights for.

"Getting sentimental on me?"

She rolls her eyes, flipping them so that he's flat on his back, settling herself in his lap. He stares up at her, eyes a little hazy from arousal, as she inches her hands under his pyjama tee, over the firm plane of his torso, pulling it off as she goes. He lifts for her, tossing it aside just before she leans down to kiss him again.

His hands slide beneath her own shirt, one of his that drapes too large off of her thin frame, cradling her waist between his palms. She finds her toes curling when he groans against her mouth, lips parting to welcome her tongue, hands travelling away from her waist and up, up, her breath catching when he cups her breasts and squeezes. The contact is brief, though, and she has to separate her lips from his when he pulls his shirt over her head, leaving her in nothing but her underwear. His fingers reach for those too, fingers hooking at the waistband and attempting to tug them down, knuckles brushing her stomach and making her hiss, hips swivelling of their own accord.

She catches his wrist. "Patience, babe."

He raises his eyebrows. "Challenge accepted."

"Challenge - ?"

Castle's hands span her waist again, twisting them until she's on her back and he's on top. Or, well, she supposes, he _tries_ to – and fails spectacularly. Instead he knocks his head on the headboard, groans as his forehead smacks off of it, and lands, sprawled, beside her.

Oh, he's ridiculous, really. She loves him.

He whines as she presses her fingers to her lips, trying to contain her laughter. No doubt he's going to sport a bruise in a couple hours, probably brag to the boys about it being a sex-related injury.

"Where you going?" He complains, snagging her wrist and pulling her back onto the bed when she reaches for the shirt she'd been wearing.

"Get you some ice. You don't want that to swell, do you?"

"I'm fine. It's a leather headboard, can't do that much damage" he insists, tugging her back onto the bed and despite her best intentions, she lets him, until she's lying next to him. "C'mon, Kate, I was _just_ about to rock your world."

"Rock my world, huh?" She lets her voice drop low, lips curling up in a smile. He doesn't hesitate to catch them with his own, teasing her with the brush of his tongue against hers before he's gone.

Kate smiles, eyes closing as his lips drift down her chest, just a millimetre away from her skin. His fingers tease her nipples briefly, making her whine softly. He moves away too quickly, reaching her navel, and she lets her thighs fall open to accommodate him, the space between them wet. It's then that he starts laving her skin with slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses, fingers brushing the inside of her thighs but never _quite_ close enough to where she wants him most.

"Castle," she groans. "Stop teasing."

"Weren't you the one preaching about patience earlier?"

He pulls her panties down her legs even as he says it, teeth grazing against the side of her knee on his way back up. Impatient, her hands reach for him, find his hair and attempt to tug him back up to her quicker. He has other plans, though, pushes her hands away and then his mouth is on her without any more warning.

Kate cries out, feet flat against the mattress and she uses them to push her hips up against his mouth. An arm across her stomach pushes her back down though, even as her hands curl around it and she huffs.

It occurs to her suddenly that this is the last time she'll ever experience this with him.

She opens her eyes to peer down at him, even as her eyes threaten to fill with tears. Her hands stray from his arm, cards her fingers through his hair and sighs when she feels his tongue against her. She loves him so much. So much. More than words could ever describe.

Then again, that's why he's the writer out of the two of them, isn't it?

Apparently sensing her distraction, Castle pauses, looking up. Catches her watching him. Her cheeks flush a little.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm okay," she lies, forcing a smile. "Promise."

He hesitates, as if he doesn't believe her. She forces another smile and lets her head fall back and then he's on her again, making her gasp because _wow_ he's really pulling out the stops here, sliding two fingers inside of her as if trying to make up for something. She screws her eyes shut and tries not to focus on it, on this last time, on how everything is already ending with his tongue on her and fingers inside her. This isn't how she wants to remember them. So she forces herself to breathe through it and focus on what he's doing, succumb to the pleasure.

She does, eventually, and when his fingers curl inside of her, stroke against her walls she falls over the edge. Gripping his hair tightly in her fists, chanting his name.

When she comes back to herself, he's propped up above her, grinning smugly. He's always pleased – always delighted that he gets to be like this with her, sometimes looks at her as though it's all a dream that he never wants to wake up from. Biting her lower lip, she cups his face in her hands, finding a laugh bubbling out of her when he leans into her touch and his stubble scratches against her skin.

"That tickle?"

"A little," she admits, watching his eyes light up. " _Don't_ get any ideas, I'm not done with you yet."

" _You're_ not done with _me?"_ He repeats, trailing his fingers against her hip, to her waist, watching as she shivers. "As I recollect, I wasn't done with _you_."

When he kisses her, it's fierce, fast, trying to challenge her. They're like this sometimes, fighting for dominance in bed with no real care for who ultimately wins. But she doesn't fall for it, hooks a leg at his hip instead and gentles him, slowing their kisses. She wants this – warm, soft, his tongue against hers as she feels him brush against her stomach.

"Slow," she finds herself saying out loud, neither a command nor a request. He follows anyway.

"Slow," he agrees, muffled because he can't stop kissing her, not for one moment, and she laughs a little. "Gotcha."

One of his hands, warm and large, curls around one of her thighs, pushing her legs further apart. She looks up at him when he aligns himself with her – doesn't reach for protection because, God, just a couple weeks ago they'd agreed to see where it would take them, baby or not – and tries not to think about it. Tries to push the thoughts of _this is the last time you'll feel this, the last time you'll be this way_ out of her head, and then the thoughts are gone, and he's inside her, and a moan slips out of her without her permission.

True to his word, he goes slow. Long strokes that have her arching up, hands travelling down to his ass to help guide his movements. He presses his forehead against hers, panting against her mouth, and she pushes up to kiss him.

Some part of her wonders whether she would rather not know, if the niggling thoughts in the back of her mind telling her she's going to die tonight will go away, if that would make it better. Some part of her is glad she knows, that she can make it special, something to remember. But it's always good with him. Always memorable, because it's _him,_ because it's them. Together.

Her hands trail back up, along his ribcage, as his arms lower a little so that he's pressed against her, pushing her down into the mattress. The weight against her is pleasant, making her hum. She takes his earlobe between her teeth, a little teasing, grinning when he jerks against her and she rolls her hips against his.

"Tease," he groans, nipping at her collarbone.

Kate smirks, pushing up onto her elbows and locking her legs around him before she flips them, again. Castle grins up at her, all dopey and amused, hands settling on her hips as she sinks down onto him again and rocks over him slowly, hands planted on his chest.

It's the same look he's always had for her, a little fascinated and a little aroused. Even back when he sat in a chair beside her old desk, before she was Captain, before they were together, before she'd even told him about her mom. Back when she twisted his ear if he got too close and his ridiculous case theories were irritating, not amusing and, though she'd never admit it, adorable. What she wouldn't give to go back, relive every moment, the good and the bad, so long as it mean she was with him.

It's this thought that makes her hands slip from his chest and she leans down until her breasts are crushed between them, legs widening so she can take him deeper, hearing him gasp. She smiles against his neck, letting her movements quicken, pressing a sloppy kiss to his jaw.

"Castle," she moans, a little breathless with it.

He groans, planting his feet against the mattress so that she can thrust up into her and match her pace.

"Yes," she gasps against his skin, mouth opening at his neck as she clings to him.

Moaning his name again, she reaches a hand down between them. He bats it away, his fingers finding her clit instead. Circles once, a little rough, and, oh –

" _Rick_ ," she moans, gripping him tightly as her orgasm rushes through her, muscles clenching and making her head spin. His name slips out of her again between curses, and she feels him spill inside of her, groaning, both breathless when she collapses, boneless, against him.

There are a few moments when she finds herself dozing, caught between sleep and awake, unwilling to let this moment go just yet. When she blinks her eyes open again, he's still there, beside her, but she feels the soft touch of a washcloth against her, wiping the sticky evidence of them from between her thighs.

"I love you," she sighs, pushing up on an elbow to kiss him softly.

He brushes the hair away from her face with one hand, studying her, face flushed and lips swollen from kisses. She studies him too, a little breathless. He's _beautiful,_ her husband – he gets uncomfortable sometimes, jokes around if she says it, but it's true. He is.

"I love you too."

He shifts away, washcloth in hand, headed back to the bathroom and Kate hums, rolling onto her back. Staring up at the ceiling. That was their last time, whether he knows it or not, whether he'll ever accept the fact that she'll either die or, more likely, the FBI will take her away, stick her in witness protection, give her a life that isn't hers without him.

It's cruel, she thinks, fingers pressing against the scar between her breasts. It doesn't bother her anymore. The rough skin catches on her clothing sometimes, but other than that the pain from her shooting has left her. But now there is a new pain, the knowledge that she will be taken from him, there is no chance that someone might save her this time. They will never have kids, celebrate a milestone anniversary together; there will never be another morning where she wakes, like this, with him. No more coffee with the ridiculous, adorable patterns he makes for her, no more building theory, no more falling asleep together at night. The future she has pictured has been ripped from her – does he know that? Does he know they'll never have this again?

At least she has had this, with him, even if their time together has been short. She has this morning, with the sun beginning to shine through the blinds lazily, casting him in gold-amber light when he leaves the bathroom and crosses the room to lie with her again. She has this moment, curled in his arms, nose pressed against his chest, the smell of sweat and sex and happiness between them.

It is this moment, right here, that makes her heart pound with the knowledge that she's going to die. There are no two options.

She doesn't want someone else's life.

It's him or nothing.

* * *

 **The End**


End file.
